


Between the Weekends

by haruhiko (iacobus)



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Fedrinka, Gay As a Tennis Player, Gay Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Quickies, Sports, Swiss, Tennis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-09
Updated: 2014-12-09
Packaged: 2018-02-28 19:47:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2744870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iacobus/pseuds/haruhiko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roger and Stan's relationship has been stuck in an unsatisfying pattern, and Mirka unintentionally forces a confrontation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between the Weekends

**Author's Note:**

> _This is the first fic I've managed to complete in years, and my first completed RPF ever. :) The story takes place right after Roger and Stan's match in London at the WTF this year, followed by a coda that takes place one week later. Quickie sex, slightly angsty but not really, fluffy in parts, and hopefully funny as well. Enjoy!_
> 
> \- - - - - - - - - -

Focus on the number of laps, Stan thought as he fumed. He’d just started a cooldown jog on one of the treadmills in the surprisingly shitty makeshift gym the ATP had apparently created out of what looked like an old breakroom in the bowels of the O2. What happened to the nicer one from last year? He might have a word with Kermode before leaving for France.

Right now though the most pressing issue was that even in this depressing room with its bare walls and one TV tuned to a silent Centre Court feed, he couldn’t get away from Roger’s voice. He couldn’t hear the whole spectrum of it, deep and musical, booming throughout the arena in massive speakers post-match, just the thinnest essence that managed to filter down the halls and through the walls of the building to worm its way in and out of Stan’s ears, like an infuriatingly slow and cheeky dropshot that spins out of reach when you attempt to chase it down.

He yelled in frustration and ran faster.

Magnus looked up from his phone. He was leaning against a counter with a small sink, where bottles of water took up most of the space.

“Calm down, you played great today. And I’m proud of you. We can break down the match tomorrow and talk about Lille too before you and Stephane head off.”

Stan ran faster.

Magnus’s brow furrowed a bit. “Slow down. You heard Stephane, just a cooldown after a match like that.”

Stan pressed the speed down button on the treadmill about 309 times, staring at Magnus as he slowed to a lazy walk.

He had to admit, he got a bit of perverse pleasure out of being able to make the Swede roll his eyes with such feeling. “Look, do you want me to wait outside?”

“No, no! Sorry. I’m just still... mad.” It was at times like this he wished Magnus spoke French. “Mad” somehow sounded more childish than “en colère.”

“Mad? Do you want to break down the match now, then?”

“No, no, not the match. It’s... aaagggh. Her.”

Magnus blinked, his forehead relaxing as he thought back to the match. “What, that Federer fan? The woman you started arguing with? If you’re letting that get to you we clearly have some work to do-”

“Not just some fan,” Stan snorted, cutting Magnus off. “That was Mirka.”

This time there was no blink. “Wait, what?”

At that moment the door to the gym crashed open.

“STAN? Are you here?” a voice boomed in French.

Stan nearly tripped over his own feet before stopping the treadmill on time. Roger stood in the doorway in a rare full fury, still in his match outfit, still in that ridiculous cardigan. Only the headband had been removed. Seve, Mirka, and Edberg were nowhere to be seen, but Chris Kermode was there, a cautious hand on Roger’s shoulder.

Stan called back grimly, in English: “If you want to use the gym fine, but don’t talk to me.”

Roger turned to Kermode, wincing a bit as he shrugged the man’s hand off his shoulder. “Chris, can you make sure we’re left alone please? Keep this door shut and don’t let anyone bother us until we come out.”

Kermode quickly looked at all three men before smiling and saying, “Sure Roger. Take your time. I’ll keep the rubberneckers away.” Rubberneckers was Kermode’s term for any journalists who seemed to be more interested in hanging out around the players than actually reporting on the tournament.

“Okay!” Stan yelled impotently as the man quickly shut the door on the three of them, still using English. “Talk, talk, talk. Talk to the walls, you have four of them you can talk to.”

Magnus put his phone away and shook his head, picking up Stan’s bags. “No, you guys should talk. You have to be together in Lille soon.”

“... Whaaaat?”

Magnus shifted a shoulder strap and slapped Stan on the shoulder, ignoring his charge’s death glare. “I’ll be waiting with Stephane in your locker room.” Stan’s feeling of betrayal intensified as his coach whispered something in Roger’s ear before walking out and shutting the door without a sound.

Roger walked purposefully toward Stan but Stan ignored him, restarting the treadmill and settling into a brisk jog.

Roger raised his voice above the whirr of the machine and the stamping of Stan’s feet, clearly annoyed that he had to do so: “You can be angry with me all you want, but you need to leave her out of this.”

He had a brief moment of surprise at Roger shifting to English that quickly morphed into anger, even though he’d started it. “Her? You can’t even use her name with me?”

Roger’s face tightened. “You know who I’m talking about. And you know you started it. She was just making a comment to Seve, she didn’t realize you could hear. You didn’t have to stop everything and approach her!”

Stan snorted, his words coming out clipped as he continued to jog. “So what! Now I know how she thinks of me. I heard everything. She thinks I can’t serve it out. A fucking slam winner won’t beat her husband. Your wife is always right. Great job.”

“Look, whatever your problem is, we CAN’T DO THIS NOW. Don’t you realize we’re going to be in Lille in a couple days? We can’t mess with things now. At least wait a damn week if you want to do this.”

Stan laughed hollowly. “Do what? I know we’re going to Lille, you don’t need to tell me. The press tells me all the time. Everyone at home is waiting for me to let you down. They all wait for you to carry me to victory.”

Roger gave him that look, the look a parent gives a child having a tantrum. Stan wanted to punch him.

“Are you mad about the loss? I know it was close, I’m sorry.”

Stan kept running.

“Is it about my back? I know you saw. Look, I know it’s not fair, but I should be fine for Lille and maybe even for tomorrow, I just need to rest.”

The treadmill rumbled gently under Stan’s feet.

“Stan?”

After what seemed like minutes but according to the treadmill was only 27 seconds, Roger shifted uncomfortably.

“Why are you so mad at me? Please Stan. Dis-moi.”

It was the wistful drop in tone more than the language switch that made Stan’s heart thump particularly hard. He stopped the treadmill and stood in place, not making eye contact as he waited a few moments for his breathing to slow. His cheeks started burning as he felt Roger’s patient gaze, waiting.

In French: “I thought I ruined everything.”

Roger blinked. “What?”

“I crossed a line. You and me, we can say whatever we like with each other. But never about her. Or Ilham.”

Roger’s eyes had already drained of anger, but they softened even further. “You were mad, it was during the match, shit happens. But I hope you never do that again. We promised each other, whatever happens between us, don’t bring them into it. That’s the only way this will work. The only way they will let this work.”

Stan snorted. “Work? You’ve been ignoring me for going on two years now. Can we even call ourselves ‘together’ these days?”

Instead of saying _Now wait just a minute, what about Indian Wells this year, what about Monte Carlo, what about the weekends in Geneva this year when we made love, quick and hot, and would show up late to train with Marco and Michi and Seve and the others,_ Roger just swallowed and said meekly, “How do you mean?”

Somehow the stricken look on Roger’s face wasn’t as satisfying as he thought it’d be, but Roger’s uncertainty made Stan more confident of his assertion, and months of frustration welled up like bile in his throat. “Always buddy-buddy and sweet when it’s a Davis Cup weekend, or the one of the weeks where you feel lonely and want to play doubles.” He ignored his unintended wordplay, pressing on. “Then months where I might as well be some nobody playing out in some Futures and you don’t call or even SMS.”

Roger stared, his face gone impassive. “You know how busy the tour is. You know I have more kids now.”

“Months and not one fucking SMS, Roger!” Stan smacked the keypad of the treadmill in frustration, slightly undermining his own point when a silly *BEEP* came out of the machine. “And then suddenly it’s Monte Carlo, or it’s Geneva, and you pretend to the world like we’re joined at the hip, like we're schoolgirls talking on the phone everyday! Enough!”

Roger looked confused, unsure of himself in a way that Stan only saw in these moments, when they were addressing this thing between them. “I thought you wanted to be left alone. I didn’t want to get in your way.”

“WHY??”

“You have Magnus now. Don’t you?”

Stan blinked, his mouth still agape from his shouted question. “Don’t be stupid.”

“So you didn’t sleep with him?” Stan flushed and Roger crossed his arms like a shield as he said triumphantly, “See? I’m not blind.”

“Magnus is my coach.” He glowered when Roger raised a suggestive eyebrow. “Stop that. It just happened a few times, it doesn’t mean anything.”

“Really? Maybe I should sleep with Seve and see what you think.”

Stan guffawed, both at the thought and at a sudden insight. “You’re jealous?”

Roger looked over at the counter, staring very thoughtfully at water bottles.

Stan felt the sour, heavy cloud of frustration evaporate quickly, clearing his vision as it lifted away. Just briefly, Roger had acted like this over Benoît, and nothing had even happened with the Frenchman. He stepped off the treadmill.

“Roger.”

The man didn’t move. Stan didn’t care and snaked his arms around Roger’s waist, gingerly, to avoid aggravating his back.

“Say something or I’m going to my locker room.”

Roger still didn’t move and his arms were still crossed, but he started speaking. “After Davis Cup a couple years ago. When we lost, and I said those stupid things. It was so awkward between us. I know we talked it over, but things still didn’t feel right. And then you asked Magnus to join you soon after. And like I said, I’m not blind. I knew. So I gave you space.”

“Damn it Roger, I thought we cleared all this up in Serbia. After I got my slam, remember? I want you around me more, I need you. And where’s this Magnus stuff coming from? I haven’t slept with him since last year. Not even after I won in Australia. It was never like that.” Stan’s unspoken words hung in the air: _Not like us._

Roger was too ashamed to even glance his way, and there was a long silence before he spoke. “... I thought you were saying you needed me to cheer me up. Because I was disappointed about Melbourne. Because it was Davis Cup.”

The classic Federer move, to treat jealousy as an emotion unworthy of his time and then to overcompensate and prove how Not Jealous he was by disappearing from view. By refusing to accept Stan’s feelings, like they were a form of charity he was too proud to accept.

Stan shook his head angrily. “We said all that was past, we said we’d work on this. For a little while I thought we were. And then you only give me a couple days here, a practice session there. Ignoring me forever and then expecting me to jump when you're ready. It’s been like that all year.”

Roger finally turned and looked at Stan, his eyes flashing. “And? You’re not the only one who waited for the calls, or an SMS. Why do I always have to reach out to you?”

Stan blinked, glumly ducking his head. “That’s why I said I thought I ruined everything.”

Roger frowned. “What did you mean?”

“I don’t want us to drift apart, but that’s what this year has felt like. I can’t stop thinking how after everything we’ve gone through all this time, since Beijing, how much it would hurt to stop being together. Not because of a big fight or a big crisis, but because we just... stopped caring.” He felt the sting of tears about to form and turned his face away from Roger, holding his breath as a couple drops escaped. “I was ready to lose you over something big, something too big for us to handle, but these days I worry I’ll lose you to something stupid, something small, petty. And tonight I thought I finally ruined everything. One last mistake to end it all.”

Stan felt Roger’s body relax a bit within the circle of his arms. “It’s okay,” he said quietly. “Mirka feels bad as well. Like I said, she thought you couldn’t hear her speaking to Seve.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. Please tell her I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, I will. She’s sorry too. And so am I. And... you won’t lose me. Not if I can help it.”

Stan turned back to look at Roger, surprised. Indeed Roger’s cheeks were slightly red, as if he was embarrassed by his own candor.

Stan growled and let go of Roger, grabbing his arms and uncrossing them. Roger didn’t resist as Stan pulled his arms around Stan’s waist, and he chuckled, hugging the younger man who buried his face into Roger’s neck. They both sighed as the last of the knotted energy in the air uncoiled.

As they held each other and enjoyed the silent, cozy moment, chest against chest, thighs against thighs, Stan felt himself getting hard, and Roger getting hard along with him. He cleared his throat and pulled out of the hug, trying to ignore the sensations. “Why are you sorry? You didn’t do anything today.”

Roger’s eyes were looking mischievous, as they always were when he was starting to feel horny. “About my back. I know you saw. And I’ll hate myself for taking your spot if I can’t play tomorrow.”

Stan’s right eyebrow went higher than usual. “Don’t worry, I’ll hate you more.”

Roger laughed a full, real laugh, throwing his head back a bit. Shyly, awkwardly he ruffled Stan’s hair. Stan batted the hand away, feeling his pulse race traitorously faster.

But before he could compose himself, Roger had him backed up against the counter and was kissing him all over, soft kisses on Stan’s face, urgent kisses on the lips, harder kisses on Stan’s neck, one hand making an immediate beeline for Stan’s ass and the other threading its fingers through the hair on the back of Stan’s head, nibbling and gently sucking the soft flesh of Stan’s neck as he pressed the growing bulge in his pants against Stan’s own, rubbing the hardening flesh against each other until Stan started moaning—softly, because he didn’t know how thin the walls were.

Roger came up for air only for a moment, and only to put his mouth over Stan’s own. Their tongues rubbed against each other, just like their erections were doing, and Stan felt himself sweating again, like he and Roger were back out on court.

Stan pulled away and quickly undid Roger’s stupid cardigan, throwing it to one side and watching hungrily as Roger carefully removed his shirt. His back was clearly bothering him.

Roger made a move as if to pull down Stan’s shorts, but Stan slapped his hands away and unceremoniously shoved a bunch of the plastic water bottles to the back of the low counter, making enough room for him to clamber up onto the counter and stand on it. Roger’s bemused expression quickly changed to a knowing one as he realized that Stan’s crotch was just above his eye level, no back movements required, and he snickered at Stan's ingenuity, quickly pulling Stan’s shorts and underwear down and releasing his hard cock. Stan bent his legs a bit, and as soon as his dick was at the right level Roger grabbed it and went to work, quickly taking the whole thing into his mouth.

Stan almost fell off the counter as the feeling of Roger’s warm, insistent mouth washed over him, and he clenched his jaw, doing his best to keep fairly quiet as he felt Roger’s tongue wetly teasing the tip of his cock. He knew he must be a bit sweaty but clearly Roger didn’t care, just as he didn’t care when he’d gone down on Roger after a workout or a match.

Despite the awkward position Stan was in, legs bent and head ducked away from the low ceiling as Roger hungrily sucked his cock, running his hands up and down the back of Stan’s legs and the insides of his thighs, he felt himself getting close. He realized he didn’t want to come like this, stood on a counter, but with Roger’s mouth on his, with Roger’s arms around him, and so he pulled out of Roger’s mouth and pulled up his shorts, nimbly hopping off the counter and pushing the man gently up against a wall. He kissed Roger hard, inwardly pleased at how quickly Rog opened his mouth to accept Stan’s tongue, how quickly Roger’s hairy arms went around his neck, and how Roger’s dick seemed to get even harder the harder they kissed.

Roger broke off the kiss, breathing shallowly not from the exertion but with desire as he removed Stan’s shirt. They kissed again, nearly jumping at the feel of skin against skin.

“We’re going to. Have to be quick about this,” Roger said in between kisses. “Any longer. And Kermode. Might start knocking.”

Stan nodded. Out of necessity, they’d learned how to get each other off quickly, and quietly. He grinned as he remembered the last time they’d gotten off in a gym, Roger shaking with suppressed laughter as a red-faced Stan cleaned his own jizz off a yoga mat caught in the line of fire.

He chuckled and worked his hand down into Roger’s underwear, gently squeezing and tugging Roger’s dick. He fingered the bead of moisture slowly leaking out and watched Roger shudder as he rubbed the slick wetness all over the tip.

“You seem like you’re about to pop already. Has it been awhile?” He pushed Roger’s shorts down and got on his knees, cruelly teasing the man with repeated light flicks of the tongue over the tip of his cock, over and under, before beginning to suck him off in earnest. Stan had missed this feeling, the taste of Roger’s cock, the feel of Roger’s strong hairy thighs and firm ass under his hands. Even the not unpleasant smell of Roger’s sweat was turning him on. He started to feel a little drunk in all his senses, and worked his mouth over Roger’s cock with renewed energy.

Roger growled and pulled Stan back up after just a minute of this, kissing him hard. “Win or lose in Lille, I’m going to take my fucking time having my way with you on Sunday night. I’m sick of these quickies.”

Stan lowered his head and started licking and sucking Roger’s nipples. More than once he heard Roger exhale sharply, the way Roger did when he was trying not to moan.

Stan stopped and straightened up, whispering into Roger’s ear as he continued to jerk Roger off. “You’re lucky your back isn’t feeling well. Otherwise I’d take you from behind right now, with you on your knees.” He could tell by feel and by the hazy look in Roger’s eyes that the man was close.

But Roger grinned, pretending he wasn’t, and turned Stan around, pulling his shorts down again and holding him close so that his cock was pressing wetly into Stan’s asscrack.

“Oh, is that so?” he whispered into Stan’s ear. “But I thought you like to get off while we’re kissing, don’t you?” he said as he jacked Stan off with one hand, tweaking one of Stan's nipples with the other, gently biting Stan’s neck and shoulder as he quickly brought Stan back to the cliff. He moved his hips, teasing and nudging Stan’s buttocks apart with his hard length, and Stan turned his head, answering Roger’s question by kissing him hungrily and pressing his ass into Roger’s crotch.

“You’re so cute,” Roger whispered as he pulled away from the kiss, grinning as Stan allowed himself a small moan. “You’re such a romantic.” He started jacking Stan off just a little bit faster, put his tongue further into Stan’s mouth, squeezed Stan’s nipple harder.

That was all that was needed. Stan leaned back into Roger and kissed him hard, with only the tensing of his body letting Roger know that he was about to come. Stan grunted hard as he came, and Roger was glad that they were kissing, as the strangled noises Stan was making got muffled in his mouth. The feel of Stan’s jizz all over his hand and the way Stan moved his asscheeks against Roger’s wet dick was all Roger needed to come as well, panting into Stan’s mouth and holding him tighter as he suddenly felt his hot liquid all over Stan’s ass.

They only had a few short moments to hold each other and to savor the feeling before Stan was cursing softly under his breath at the wet marks all over their corner of the gym floor, with some dots even on the treadmill. Roger quickly grabbed some paper towels by the sink at the counter to wipe the two of them clean, giggling like a teenager as he wiped Stan’s ass dry.

“You’ll have to wipe the floor,” he said as they put back on their clothes. “My back, after all.”

Stan glared at the smug expression. “You better be okay for Lille.”

“For the matches, or for after? Owwa!” he yelped when Stan punched him on the arm.

“I mean it! I feel terrible you got injured today.”

“Hey, it’s my fault, not yours. I just need to rest, and I should be fine. Like I said, I might even play tomorrow.”

Stan stared. “Right. I saw how you took your shirt off.”

Roger made a face. “Well, we’ll see. I just need to get on a massage table as soon as possible and then sleep, and see how it is tomorrow.”

They cleaned up quickly and straightened their clothes in unison, getting ready to head out the door.

Roger looked over at Stan and grabbed his hand, squeezing it briefly. “Ich liib dich.”

Stan smiled. Roger didn’t inflict Baseldeutsch on him often, but it came out in moments like these. “I love you too,” he said, impulsively throwing his arms around Roger a final time and planting a sloppy kiss on Roger’s bemused lips before they went back out into the world.

And then Roger opened the door, and without having had any prior discussion about it, they both affixed sullen expressions on their faces, as if they’d just finished a long, difficult conversation.

They saw Kermode a short distance down the hall, talking to a few people. No one Stan recognized, maybe a journalist or two. Roger went to Kermode and shook his hand, clearly bent on exchanging a few pleasantries instead of slinking away, but Stan just waved in the group’s general direction and quickly ducked down another hallway, heading to his locker room before he started laughing. If the man only knew where Roger’s hand had been just minutes before...

 

_**Eight nights later** _

 

He’d waited patiently all day for this moment. All through practice in the morning, then Roger’s brilliant match against Gasquet which saved him from having to play a third match of his own, and then the celebrations and confetti and photos, and then the hugs with his family and Roger’s family, then Magnus and even Timea. That had all gone quickly enough, but after sitting around through Roger’s cooldown and post-match rehab for his back, and the endless interviews where he was sure the team got asked every question in at least three different languages, and then the boring dinner with the French players and old Stammbach and the ITF and FFT bigwigs, and then a weird interaction with Gasquet and some other members of the French team who had tried to pick a fight with him over some imagined verbal slights, taking offense to a couple throwaway comments in an effort to cope with their loss... well, he’d had enough celebrating for one day. Watching Marco repeatedly place a territorial arm around Roger’s shoulders—or around Roger’s waist as the night wore on and everyone got even drunker—and whisper in his ear in Baseldeutsch wasn’t really helping, even though the rational part of his brain knew that whatever had been there between them was long over, and some time before midnight he began feigning sleepiness, hoping Roger would take the hint.

True to form Roger was stupidly oblivious, likely in part because he was drunk as hell, giggling at the slightest provocation like he’d been eating hash cakes, taking pictures with anyone who wanted one, and chattering animatedly with Michi about the lack of a Swiss flag emoji and other pressing world issues long after most everyone had begun snoring where they sat.

But then he finally noticed and made a big show of helping Stan back to his hotel room so that their Davis Cup Hero could get some sleep, except once they got there he followed Stan inside.

They were too drunk and spent and Roger’s back was still too finicky for them to even think of carrying out the wild sexcapades they had threatened each other with the weekend before, and instead they lazily made out and sucked each other off at a slow pace, drifting in and out of sleep as they felt each others’ bodies, silently wondering to themselves if they were in some dream after they both came, like they’d been having memories of sex rather than actual sex. Stan enjoyed it, and hoped he’d remember the feeling of it the next morning.

Except it technically was morning already. And now, after the endless day, he finally had his moment: Roger to himself, all quiet, the off-season officially begun, the two of them together. No downcast French men, no media, no photos, no Seve, no Magnus, no dinner, no champagne, no tennis. Just him and Roger.

Stan cuddled closer to Roger in bed, and smiled as Roger yawned like a wildcat, his jaw cracking as he pulled Stan in closer and then planted a gruff kiss on his lips.

“We should get some sleep before the sun comes up,” Roger murmured. “We have Lausanne tomorrow.”

“I know.” Sometimes he hated how full their schedules were. “Roger?”

“Mmnf?”

“Why did you... When we were with the trophy, you held yourself back.”

Roger tried opening both eyes, but only one did, and that only halfway. Stan stifled a laugh.

“How do you mean?”

“You stayed in the back. You kept putting me front and center. It’s your trophy too, you know,” Stan said, more bewildered than irritated.

This time Roger got both eyes open. “You’re right, it’s our trophy. But without your effort Friday and yesterday we’d be dead.” He ran his fingers through Stan's hair. “And the media is going to say plenty about me. They’re going to do their best to make this about me, no matter how many times I tell them how much you did for this win, how much you did for me and Seve, and Marco and Michi and Yves and Stéphane, year after year. So you needed to be front and center. Because they can say what they want, but if anyone looks at a picture they’ll know. You did this for us.”

Roger held Stan tighter, speaking into the hollow of his neck. “But anyway, leave that for a moment. Because I want you to know that this weekend is different from Serbia, from Geneva. Even Beijing. I won’t ignore you or avoid you again. This weekend was beautiful. They've all been beautiful. But they’re not enough. So when we wake up tomorrow, let's remember that this time nothing changes. Let’s do it for real this time, every single day we can.”

Stan felt the sting in his eyes, blinked it back. He kissed Roger hard in place of an answer, moving his tongue against Roger’s until the man moaned sleepily, a soft rumble deep in his throat.

Roger pulled away reluctantly. “Stop that. Time to rest.”

“Fine,” Stan sighed. He gave Roger a teasing glance. “Ich liib dich.”

Roger grinned and shook a finger at Stan's face. “Baseldütsch sounds terrible coming from you. Don’t ever try that again. And,” giving Stan a final smooch, “I love you too. Now go to bed.” He rolled carefully onto his side and Stan snuggled up to him from behind.

“I suppose I’m going to wake up with your cock poking me in the back,” Roger grumbled, not unhappily. He was already drifting off to sleep.

Stan was quickly following him, otherwise he would have responded. Instead he stared at the miniature Davis Cup trophy on the table opposite the windows as he felt sleep draw its soft, dark blankets over his eyes. In the pale light coming through a gap in the curtains, the prize gleamed like a tiered cake made of silver, like a stairway to a landscape of dreams.


End file.
